The London overdose

I lived in Amsterdam for a good eight years. In all that time I have not been to the Anne Frank House once, nor to the Rijksmuseum, the Allard Pierson museum, the Tropenmuseum or even the Sex museum. I have not visited Carré, de Kleine Komedie or the Stadsschouwburg.

Twelve months have I been in London now. In that whole year I had not been to the British Museum, the Science Museum, the Victoria&Albert Museum or the National Portrait Gallery. I haven't seen a West End show nor have I gone up in the London Eye. I have barely glimpsed the Tower or Big Ben. You just don't get to do a lot of these things when you live somewhere. Part of 'going native' means snubbing the clichés, even if that means missing out on some interesting experiences.

By far the best motivation to get off our sorry native butts is to have guests over. This week my mum came to visit me. In five days time we have shuffled past the Chinese Terracotta Warriors and the Egyptian mummies at the British Museum. We have been baffled by the suspended tube lights and even black canvasses that pass for art at the Tate Modern. We have sipped champagne cocktails at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. We have looked at everything from 16th century locks and keys to Vivian Westwood dresses at the V&A.

In a city like London you are never done. There is always more to see, more to do, more to experience. At least this week I have been giving it my best. I need some time to recover from this cultural overdose. That is, until the next guests come knocking at the door...

Blow the bank

I hate banks. No, this is not a literary hyperbole. I really do hate banks. They are the most customer unfriendly type of business I have ever come across. They lure you in with nice offers and wide smiles but as soon as they have your business the masks come off and the smiles are replaced by passive 'sorry-but-I-can't-help-you' faces at best and evil smirks at worst.

I have easily spent a year of my life arguing with my Dutch bank. I have been given the run-around so many times I must have talked to every single employee. The only reason I still bank there is the introduction of online banking. Taking out the people factor has in this case been a blessing. No more arbitrary decisions where things can be done one day but not the next. I control my money when I want, how I want.

London may be the financial capital of Europe but, if anything, my banking experience here is even worse. The whole system is archaic. Since I did not have a job this year I have had to settle for opening a student account. As a student you are the lowest of the lowliest. You're not likely to have any money to spend and for that reason banks despise you. Credit? Ha, you must be joking. Service? Why on Earth? Online banking? Funny. Seriously, I can not do anything with my account without physically going to my bank branch; not even change my address. Everything takes forms, people and mostly...time.

All I wanted to do today was pay my rent and deposit. The money had to go from my UK account to another UK account with a different bank. Obviously I had to go to the bank. My annoyance at this was only surpassed by stunned disbelief when I found out they wanted to charge me 23 pounds for this simple transaction! The only way to do this free of charge was to withdraw the money from my account and walk 5 minutes to a branch of this other bank and deposit it again. They've gone mad. From now on I just might have to start keeping my money in a shoebox under the bed again.

Danse macabre

My university is located on exhibition road, so named because it houses three of the main London musea. One of these is the Natural History Museum. Normally this magnificent building radiates a stately tranquility, but not this week... something eerie is going on there.

The liveless skeletons that are the museum's regular tenants have had to relinquish the limelight to other, slightly more lively, skeletons. Outside these grimfaced carcasses rattle their bones dressed in the pelts and feathers of the dead ones inside. Up and down they walk, looking without seeing.

This week the NHM has been hosting London Fashion Week. All over the papers are images of walking sticks disguised as humans wearing dresses no real person can ever fit. Unlike their Italian counterparts the organisers of LFW have refused to ban the so-called 'size 0' models. Instead, they have introduced compulsory health checks for models. Although I am by no means trying to ridicule the seriousness of eating disorders, I can't help but wonder who we are really trying to protect here... In a country where underweight people aren't exactly the biggest problem, the whole debate seems a bit skewed. Maybe the rationale is that, instead of getting the fatties to slim down, it's easier to pick on the skinny girls so they won't make us feel so bad about ourselves?

Moving day

Just one. One suitcase, that was all I had with me when I got on that plane a year ago. Granted, it merited a "heavy luggage! Lift with care" label but still... it was only one suitcase. When I moved house again three weeks later that single suitcase had sprouted a little offspring but nothing I couldn't carry by myself. So how can it be that just a year later it took me 9 runs with two suitcases on each to carry all my stuff into my new apartment?!

The studybooks and lecture notes I have accumulated this year are already worth a full two suitcases. Then there is my cursed desktop. Why o why did I not just buy a laptop? I arrived with merely some all purpose London-in-the-fall clothes. Throughout the year I have gradually smuggled most of my wardrobe here by filling the excess space in my suitcase every time I went back to Holland. How can I have so many clothes yet find nothing to wear? And there is paperwork, office supplies, trinkets. So much stuff...


Since my new place is only a 7 minute walk up the road from my old one there was no point in using public transport. Nine times I walked back and forth. Forth with a suitcase dragging on my arm so heavily I am almost surprised to find it still attached. Back with an empty one, mentally preparing myself for the next run. To-and-fro, to-and-fro, to-and-fro until then finally it was all done.

I have officially handed in my old keys and am fully installed in my new little piece of heaven. It is even better than I remembered it. I am like a child with a shiny new toy as I walk around, opening cupboards and exploring the rooms. My bedroom is a comfy place where I know I will be at home. I am snug as a bug in a rug, so pleased. All that I need to be perfectly content is a trip to IKEA and somebody to help me set up that darn wireless router!

My place

E=MSc2

Today it is exactly one year since I heard the words 'Hora est' and was told that I should carry my new doctoral title with honour but should never forget the responsibilities it brings towards science and country. Big words to live up to.

As for carrying the title with honour, I try not to flash it around wantonly. Here in the UK though it seems academic titles carry a lot more weight than they do back home. I was advised quickly after I arrived that I should use it in official dealings whenever possible. On that advice I added the Dr. to my name when I applied for a bank account. I fear to think how banks treat people otherwise but that is a different matter. The unintended side effect is that the title appears on all of my bank statements and even gets printed on the receipt every time I pay for anything with my card.

Soon after I moved I also applied for a student travel card. In a frivolous moment I ticked that box marked "Dr.". I had just gotten my title a few weeks before and I suppose I was just trying it on for size. A silly impulse. Once, at the station, I presented my card at the ticket window to top up my credit. The guy there took a long hard look at the card, then at me, and back again at the card. Then suddenly he hollered to his colleague in the next window "hey, look: we have a real doctor here!". My cheeks flushed a bright red and I thought I would die of humiliation right there. I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed about a title I worked so hard to get but I do feel that there is a time and a place for it. The ticket window and the check-out counter, however, are definitely not it.

The Anglo-Saxons on the other hand sure do like to show off their titles. They have a wide range of them and they’re not ashamed to use them. It is not like the Dutch system where there is essentially a succession of titles and as you get a new one, you drop the old one. Here you keep them all, stacking them up like Lego blocks. And it is not just the MSc or PhD titles; they have some very specific ones too. My project supervisor, for instance, carries the impressive epithet "MBBS MBA DIC MFPH FRCGP". Now that I have handed in my thesis I will soon also be allowed to add the letters DIC to my name: short for Degree of Imperial College. Of course the main title I have earned myself this year is MSc, but I already have one of those in my collection. So what shall I do: MSc² DIC PhD?

Barnes to Fulham... to Battersea

Almost 12 months have I been here now. I am about to move to my third address in this city and know that I will see the coming and going of another winter. I might as well face it: London is where I live now. In recognition of this I have decided to make an effort to get to know the city better. Since the best way, the only way, to do this is on foot, I have treated myself to a book with 50 walking tours of London. Yesterday I picked my first one.

I start at Barnes Bridge Station. Although strictly speaking a part of London, Barnes is essentially one at those many little river towns that got swallowed up by the city but has managed to retain some of its small town feel. It looks prosperous and is full of families with young children. Apparently it is also rather full of Dutch people as several times I pass families warning their bike-riding children to be 'voorzichtig' or to stop 'zeuren'. Barnes is also where the famous Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race finishes.

The route continues along Putney which, for its sheer number of boat houses, reminds me of the sea-side villages I spent my childhood holidays in. This is rowing central. At the end of the route lies Fulham Palace, the former summer house of the Bishops of London. Although I have been to Fulham many times before I have somehow managed to completely miss noticing this. London is so full of history mixed in with the present that you develop a blind spot for it.

Barnes to Battersea

According to my guide book this is where the route finishes after a walk of two hours straight. In a reckless over-estimation of my own fitness I decide that, since I made it this far, I might as well continue walking all the way home. All I need to do is follow the Thames for another few twists and turns. A pleasant surprise is that I am kept company by hundreds of boats on the river participating in the Great River Race. Less pleasant is that in the last stretch my knee joints decide it has been enough and go on strike. I hobble the last 15 minutes home like an old arthritic woman. Sitting at home all these weeks, writing my thesis, has clearly not done my shape much good. Three and a half hours after I got off the train I stumble through my door. Home.

One down, forty-nine to go.

Kill your darlings

Almost there. I have written all I had to say, entered all my references and did the formatting. Version 1 was sent off to my supervisor yesterday who promptly returned it to me two hours later with relevant suggestions and a general nod of approval. All should be well then with nine more days on the clock. Except that I am 1,000 words over my allowed word count of 8,000. I need to cut.

Easier said then done. I have spent so much time giving birth to these words; how can I kill them now? They are my children, my darlings. How can I choose between them? But like Sophie, I too have to make my choice. This is no time to be soft-hearted. Chop chop. Off with the adjectives. Bang bang. Another paraphrase mortally wounded. Like dominos they fall, hapless victims of a brutal verbacide. I am judge, jury and executioner.

Here the fallen lay
never will they be read
a thousand silenced words
some good, some plain, some bad

The unbearable lightness of being

Soon I will be changing my address. For most people that is a big deal. The hungry databases of departments, institutions, companies, governmental bodies, and charities all demand to be fed the information of your new whereabouts. And even after you have surrendered that information to everything and everyone, the lesser remnants of your mail are still likely to haunt the new residents for many years after your departure. Not for me, not this time.

I lead a shadow life in London. Almost nobody knows I am here. As far as the city of Amsterdam is concerned, Oost is where they still believe I lay my hat. The English government and the city of London are blissfully unaware I walk amongst them. The only ones who know where to find me are the bank and the university. Here I have no subscriptions, no bills, no taxes, no ties. I can disappear quietly into the night.

At the moment a significant part of my life is taking place on this almost etherical level. My new tenancy agreement is written in the pale-hued ink of good faith, at least until the estate agent becomes aware of the changes in the household. My job offer is a mere spoken promise, figuring no figures, dating no dates. All I can do is have faith as I walk into my new life across this bridge built from promises and cemented by trust.

Exodus

And so it begins. Like Jews out of Egypt, my flatmates and I are marching out of the house and into our respective promised lands.

In a wholly coincidental, yet magnificent display of unison all five of us have chosen September as the month to move out. It secretly gives me great pleasure to think of the distress this will have caused my landlords. They and I have not always been on the best of terms. In general I think it is fair to say the feelings amongst us flatmates are not unlike those of the Jews towards the Pharaoh. There is a definite taste of revenge in this miniature Exodus.

Unfortunately, unlike in the biblical story, it seems some of the seven plagues are not being visited upon our landlords but on us, poor tenants. First there was the river. Although it did not turn to blood, it definitely turned into sewage forcing its way into the flat. Then came darkness. One by one the lights have started to go bust. But the most recent plague is one we indeed brought onto ourselves: locusts. Swarms of hopeful prospects have descended on the house to view our rooms. Day after day they come and chirp noisily. Soon hopefully they will have eaten everything and the sounds will quiet down again.

The first of us has already crossed the sea and over the course of the next few weeks the rest of us will follow. Off to our lands of milk and honey.